


By Happenstance

by plant_boi_potter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Malfoy has sort of turned over a new leaf, Emotions, Flashbacks, Freeform, Grimmauld Place, Harry Potter is in Auror training, Healer Draco Malfoy, I'm Sorry, M/M, Mild Smut, Muggle Objects, Sarcastically portrayed saviour worship, Short Chapters, Slow Burn, Splinching, St Mungos, Tension, Trauma, Wizard bars, no real auror training in sight tbh, war memories, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plant_boi_potter/pseuds/plant_boi_potter
Summary: Kairos (n)The perfect, delicate, crucial moment; the fleeting rightness of time and place that creates an opportune atmosphere for action, words or movement.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> It honestly wasn't my intention to make this so long but... have some Slow Burn Drarry I guess.
> 
> [The text post I saw that sparked this ENTIRE fic.](http://ronaldswheezy.tumblr.com/post/166428132276/sp00kylexa-harry-cant-duel-harry-cant-duel)

When Harry Potter's resume landed on Robards desk early Thursday afternoon he looked at it as if it were going to explode. Tentatively, he examined it. Indeed, Harry's signature was plainly visible at the bottom of the page, along with some ink blotches that Robards grimaced at. He raked his eyes down the letter, taking everything in.  
A mocking voice broke his silent deliberations. "Another simpleton fresh out of Hogwarts Gaza?"   
Gawain lifted his eyes from the parchment in an effort to train his steely glare on the young Auror that leant against the doorframe. As their eyes met, the younger man shrank back a little . He gulped, sensing he'd crossed a line.   
"Auror Robards to you. You're still on the clock Marshall, remember that." The younger man - Marshall, nodded.   
"Who is it then... Sir?" Marshall strode over to the huge oak desk that took up most of the room. He placed his wand on the table before splaying his hands directly in front of his body.   
Robards pushed the parchment toward his co-worker. "See for yourself".   
"Merlin!" He gasped. "This is Harry Potter!" Marshall stared at the paper before him. Why on Earth a wizard like Harry would want to work in a stuffy Auror Office with these morons, he didn't know. He certainly wouldn't have done it if he were famous.  
However, his musings were conveniently interrupted.   
"He's going to need extra duelling lessons." Robards concluded.   
Marshall's jaw hung agape. "You can't give Harry Potter extra duelling lessons!"  
"I cannot train an unprepared, incapable Auror without some help. Besides, he was already rejected once when he was seventeen."  
Marshall breathed through his nose, composing himself before he spoke again "With all due respect sir, he defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named."  
Biting his tongue, Robards decided to keep his opinions to himself on the matter of Voldemort, the war had been gruelling on everyone.   
"He never even completed Occulemency. I'm being light on the boy. He's young and if it weren't for his Defence O.W.Ls and valiant effort in the war, I wouldn't even consider him for the position". Robards' age was showing as he ran his hand through greying hair. His temples throbbed with sudden noise. He hoped he didn't look as defeated as he felt.


	2. 1: Harry

Harry toyed with his half-empty mug of butter beer. The froth had dissipated hours ago and he wasn't in the mood to ask for a top up. Rain lashed against the window as Harry leant his head against the cool, smooth surface. The Three Broomsticks was warm, the fire roaring in the hearth. Lifting his head, he stared into the flames, dithering on whether or not to leave the crowded pub. The floo ignited, spitting green flame before settling back to a yellow-orange glow. Something had flown out of it, although Harry hadn't noticed because he'd been focused on not hitting his head when the floo had roared to life.  
He completely missed the scroll as he snatched the dimpled tankard by it's handle, hauling himself off the stool as he did so. Keeping his head down, Harry dodged multicoloured shoes, trying to make his way to the bar without being recog-  
"Harry Potter? Is that you! I just wanted to thank you for your bravery and loyalty to the cause that..." Harry groaned inwardly as he let this unknown woman prattle on at breakneck speeds. With how fast she spoke, hopefully he could leave sooner rather than later.  
Finally her tirade finished and he smiled at her, hoping to all hell that it wasn't abrasive. He didn't need any more bad press than he'd already gotten and The Daily Prophet was merciless. Skirting around an upended chair, Harry managed to slam his half empty drink on the bar. "Thanks."  
He tossed two sickles at the cash register before checking and double-checking that he had his wand. It had become a frequent occurrence since the last time he'd 'properly' gone out.  
Shuddering, Harry drew his hood up, bracing against the icy wind that permeated the space the open door gave.  
\----------  
Kicking his shoes off in the foyer, Harry relished in the aloneness the house gave him. By nature it was still damp and eery, and it still gave him muted flashbacks. The house groaned as if sensing Harry's arrival. Just like that, he was back to unease.  
His hair was even more of a mess than usual. It had still been blowing a gale, even as he apparated back to Grimmauld Place. He shivered as he heard the house react to the roaring wind.  
Dinner was Harry's first coherent thought. His hair could wait, he decided, focusing more directly on the ever-present growling in his stomach. Turning to make his way toward the kitchen, he stopped, shaking his damp, matted hair from his face first.  
Harry knocked the umbrella stand over.  
“Oh for fuck's sake”, he seethed at his own stupidity. As if on cue a shrieking sound erupted from upstairs:  
“Filthy half blood, dragging dirt over my persian rug...desecrating the Most Ancient House of Black-”  
Harry took the stairs two at a time, slipping ever so often on the polished wood. He took care to dodge the head of the last house elf mounted on the wall. He'd tried to pry it off, like he had with the others, but this one wouldn't budge – the sticking charm was just too strong.  
He hadn't forgotten about Walaburga Black, or her infernal torrent of abuse.  
He'd managed to move her portrait to the second floor. At some point - it felt like a lifetime ago now, he'd tried to throw it out. But it just kept appearing, propped up - indecently large in the narrow hallway. So he'd kept it. Putting it in the loft space definitly wasn't an option, so Harry did the next best thing.  
He strode down the hallway of the second floor. He hadn't even taken his cloak off. It hung loosely over one shoulder, the wet fabric loosely sticking to one shoulder-blade. Grasping the curtains with both hands, Harry pulled, noting with dismay that the deep forest green had faded to a doleful olive. In one fluid motion, Walaburga was silenced once more by the thick drapes blanketing her large, almost omnipresent form.  
His shoulders slumped forward as he slogged downstairs, moving the umbrella stand to under the staircase, trembling, scarred fingers caressed the door handle before slamming the door, knuckles whiting for a second before he let go and moved off to the kitchen. Exhaling, Harry rooted around in the low hanging cupboards for something that could be considered a passable meal.  
Bolognaise, he decided absent-mindedly, spying some beef stock and a pack of spaghetti that had been haphazardly thrown in the cupboard nearest to the fridge. Casting a lumos, Harry quickly located the other ingredients in various places around the kitchen, mostly in dank nooks of cupboards, behind a lot of mismatched food.


	3. 2: Draco

“No.” Draco's tone was flat and unmoving. “Absolutely not.” This conversation had gone on for quite a while and neither party was getting anywhere. He was stood, arms folded across his chest in lofty defiance. Granite eyes bore into the Minister of Magic as Draco's mouth twisted into a grimace for a split-second before settling on a tight line. He hated authority. He hated his father. He hated Aurors and he certainly hated the Minister of Magic. “I am NOT teaching anyone to duel. I have no free time, and my patients come above all, even him.”  
The Minister had come haring into his examination room in the early hours, demanding a word with him. He would have been happy to oblige, had it not been a word about Harry Potter. Draco was livid, but the Minister was having none of it.  
Before Draco could spout some more insolence – as the Minister would put it, he was silenced. “Mister Malfoy I shall remind you only once that you have been released from Azkaban prison on a technicality and therefore have no actual groundings for your defiance. If you choose to resist, we will be obligated to put you under home imprisonment, where you will be listed as a prisonier of malediction to the Departments of Magical Law Enforcement and Magical Transportation.”   
The minister concluded his spiel, with a smugness that suggested he'd memorised it just for his own amusement. Draco believed he had, it sounded like something the Law Enforcement would spew at him.   
Toeing the threadbare carpet with unease, Draco deliberated. He'd worked so hard to get here - on his own no less. He'd learnt and grown so much, but he didn't think anything could make him get over his guilt, or his hatred. For a split-second he glanced at the white sleeve of his left hand. He'd unconsciously shaken it to over the ball of his wrist. Taking a deep breath, he let his mind go blank. Controlling himself once more,  
he allowed his fringe to fall in his eyes slightly, his eyes dropping.  
Draco stared at nothing for a moment before nodding curtly. “If I may take my leave.”   
There were two things in particular that Draco was very talented at: Occlumency and Duelling. Unfortunately, those were also the two things Harry Potter was downright abysmal at. They were also the things he'd neglected to do as soon as he became a healer.   
In an attempt at some sort of harmony, they'd agreed upon a truce after the war but the damage had already been done. Draco wasn't sure he could face Harry again – for a multitude of reasons. Shame? Terror? Pride? The most damning reason of all... Pettiness. He had tried, he honestly had. But he couldn't shake the hurt.   
Potter was front page news every third day. He was recognised, sought-after and desirable. A wizarding hero. Draco's thoughts came fast, mocking Harry's lionized status. Saint Potter. The omnipresent prat.  
Harry's notable fame wasn't the only thing that bound Draco to hate him. Harry had been his downfall. He had left the Malfoy name in disrepute and above all, he didn't seem to give a damn.   
Draco thought about this as he descended a set of stairs. They were Turkish blue linoleum, the worst colour, in Draco's humble opinion. “Who worries about the colour of goddamned stairs”. He muttered as he wrapped his healers robes tighter around his small frame. The night shift was always the worst. Sure, Draco got double pay, but he didn't need it, not really. He wasn't punishing himself, which his workmates thought he was, he was rewarding himself. Being able to help others like this... it was a change his father never made. When Draco was accepted into the first Healer's Academy he jumped at the chance.   
“Maybe, just maybe, this would do me some type of good.” He mused almost silently as he unbuttoned the healers robes, his badge coming with them and clattering to the floor.   
In recent years, he'd become a lot more clumsy and forgetful. It was possibly because he wasn't under the iron hand of his father – or Voldemort anymore. A wash of relief came over him as his hair fell in his face for the second time that day as he picked his badge off the floor and slipped it in the collection tray on the front desk.   
There was a staff rota somewhere, but Draco barely checked it anymore, he had a copy at home, pinned to a bulletin board. With a dismayed look at the floor, and the world beyond St. Mungo's, Draco decided to use the communal floo instead.   
The corridors were almost empty as Draco glided down them, thinking ahead as he always did recently. He was going to teach Harry Potter how to pass Auror training.   
And he was going to force himself to hate it every step of the way.


	4. 3: Harry

Sweat beaded on Harry's forehead as he ran. He was more lithe – brittle. Bones snapped as his joints twisted to accommodate his sudden movement. His glasses had been knocked off. That was the only explanation for the dark, indistinguishable shapes darting down the walls. A searing pain ripped through his chest, his feet tore and bled from what seemed to be glass underfoot. Still the shadows loomed closer. The adrenaline surge was flagging. He collapsed, moss wetting his back as he curled into a ball and screamed.   
He was still screaming when his conscious mind took over – when the moss became sweat dampening his velveteen headboard, the candles cast long shadows on the wall directly in front of him. It didn't stop him scrambling for his glasses, nor did it stop him casting a breathless lumos and swiping his wand around the room.   
He hunkered down more in his duvet as if it would protect him from his own traumatic past. Rolling over, Harry shouldn't have been surprised to notice it was 3.45am. He ran his hand through his hair, nails scraping across his scalp and down the nape of his neck, before coming to rest at the thin chain dangling around his neck. He fingered it, slowly running his hands around the links until his palm came to rest on – and then close around - the pendant protectively.   
Eventually, he acknowledged that he was actually awake and slewed out of bed. Harry's stomach gurgled. He'd eaten no less than seven hours ago but with nothing to do he made his way to the kitchen. It seemed to be more out of habit than anything else. Everything looked as it did when he was fifteen - although long table was covered with untouched silverware and a small portion of the fireplace was gouged away. Harry smiled fondly at it, recalling the backfiring hex that had caused it. Fred Weasley had been very proud of himself that day. Harry found his eyes misting up as he scooped up the cutlery. The clattered together, harsh and loud in the silence of the old house.   
He opened a drawer idly as he watched the first rays of sun dip above the horizon line of the back garden. A weak pool of light settled across the small amount of garden where he shrubs had been allowed to grow wiry and the plants were untamed. The few remaining visible petals of an Akebono tree were white with age, scattered across the yard.   
The tree itself – like much of the garden, had been neglected. Harry resigned himself to seeing the rest of the cutlery put in the right drawers. He had dithered on whether to fix or to completely uproot the garden for a while but no plan had ever come to fruition. He'd always found himself too busy. Or at least he'd told himself that. He knew that if he uprooted the garden the last remnants of his Godfather would be gone – save the pendant and a couple of Muggle photographs.   
He turned to gaze at the head chair before drifting through the house in a half daze, eventually ending up in the sitting room.   
Heavy black curtains were drawn against the waxing sun, dousing the room in darkness. Shrugging off the uneasy feeling he had been wallowing in since he'd woken up, Harry moved over to the far wall, feeling for breaks in the wallpaper. Once he'd hit the tapestry, he knew he'd gone too far. In between both was a floor lamp. It flickered a dull orange glow over everything as Harry patiently re-stacked some magazines he'd knocked over. The top one caught his eye briefly as a tanned figure donned in the plum-coloured robes of Wizengamot waltzed through the bottom corner. He seemed to be the first in a long line of suspects in an connected to an embezzlement accusation.   
Harry shrugged and threw the paper back down from where he'd been holding it up to the poor light coming from the lamp. His stomach gurgled again and he groaned before making his way back to the kitchen to fix himself some buttered toast.   
\----------  
Dusting crumbs off his legs, Harry stood, leaving his plate on the arm of the sofa. He leant over the forest green Ottoman to open the floor length curtains. Light burst through the sudden gap, filling the room with a warm glow. Harry had apparently neglected to look at the time. He dashed upstairs to dress, pulling a t-shirt and jeans out of his drawers, barely looking at them before pulling them on.   
An owl pecked impatiently at the front window as Harry fumbled with the latch. The post seemed so early. The Owl was large with dark eyes and malting feathers. It had two letters in it's beak. They were both stamped with the general ministry seal, which made Harry gulp audibly. He'd made himself forget the painstaking ache in his fingers as the quill had scratched out his wishes to join the Auror's.   
He had known deep down that everything was wrong. His only saving grace was his name. He'd never used it before, the ultimate power that the name “Harry Potter” brought him – not intentionally. But this was different, he'd told himself as he signed. It was different because it would, in the end, do everyone good. Right?   
He handed the owl a few knuts and it swept itself away on the morning breeze. Harry watched it go, spreading it's wings out against the sun.   
“Dumbledore's man through and through”, he whispered before peeling sticking charms off the envelopes.   
\----------


	5. 4: Draco

A bleary eyed Draco Malfoy tossed his hair back as the shower hissed with warm spray. It was late afternoon by the time he'd woken up and he was looking forward to his long weekend. He spent some time deliberating over whether to shave or not. It had been enforced upon him at a young age and even though his hair was wispy and light, he still sometimes gave into tradition, even though there was no need to. It got him thinking. He hadn't been out in a long time. Since Tesco's had been acquired through the wizarding stock market, all his groceries came by floo. Of course he went for drinks sometimes with his colleagues, and then he'd been to the one reunion that Hogwarts had held. He couldn't not, really. Everyone he knew had talked to him about how good it would be to see someone like him there. Someone who had overcome so much. So he went. It was okay, in a strange, mystic sense. He'd had a good time. He remembered Zechariah had made a jibe about how he was being treated like Harry Potter and suddenly the lights were too hot and the noises too loud and everything felt as if he'd been thrust back into his fathers grasp.   
“I am nothing like that dandin.”   
Draco grabbed a towel from the towel rack, scorching his hand in the process. He glared at the heated rail before gingerly stepping out of the shower. His feet hit the soft bath mat as droplets of water raced down the curve of his spine and settled in the dimples of his lower back. For a while he just stood in the weak afternoon light, basking in it as it bounced off the bathroom of his new apartment.   
Roaming freely around the penthouse in just a towel, Draco opened the blinds to the beautiful view below. The rolling hills stretched out for miles and the different apartments soared into the sky, like huge glass spheres.   
Draco could see the old, decrepit manor from where he stood, a small grey dot surrounded by blood red poppies. A reminder to all who had served, and subsequently died during the second war. His mother had insisted on it after the late Andromeda Tonks had entrusted her with her grandson.   
Thinking of his cousin left a bad taste in his mouth – one he did not dare try to recognise. He shrugged the feeling of woe off and busied himself getting dressed instead.   
The silver ornate mirror that leant against the far wall of his bedroom shimmered to life as Draco entered. He'd never get used to it picking his day clothes for him but his mother had insisted he keep it – a parting gift she had said.   
As it busied itself pushing ties and tailored suits through it's shimmering face, Draco set to work with the hairdryer. A muggle device; nonetheless, he found it quite useful.   
“Reminder you have an appointment with a Mister Harry James Potter at five thirty” the shill voice of the mirror called. He did remember. And he wished he hadn't been thinking about it all damn day.  
Plaintively Draco watched his thin, straight hair fall in his eyes. It was always doing that lately. Really, he thought to himself, he should get it cut. Sweeping it to the side, Draco presented himself to the mirror, who presented him with a hair tie. He grimaced as he tied the hair at the nape of his neck in in a small, low ponytail before pulling his left arm through a peach button down. He closed the clasp of his olive trousers before traipsing through the apartment for his tennis shoes.   
He looked just the part; rich, arrogant and better than Potter. The latter was all he cared about, to stroll through this damn lesson and come out the other side.   
Flicking his keys back and forth his his first finger and his thumb, Draco strolled out of the door. Not looking back, he descended the stairs cautiously, flickering his eyes over each door as he passed. There were some Muggle inventions he would never understand, like the lift that passed as he stared through the bars of the bannister on the third floor. He didn't trust lifts.   
After looking forlornly at all the Muggle establishments the Ministry had lined up for his approval, he was glad they hadn't tried to negotiate with him. With any luck, this stint with Harry Potter would get him some press coverage, although if the Prophet got hold of the story, they'd likely find a way to tear Harry a new one. It wouldn't be the first time. Draco bit his tongue as he caught himself about to outwardly laugh before he turned a corner into Partnership Court.


	6. 5: Harry

Harry dithered nervously just inside the wards. They surrounded the glen and just got stronger as he inched toward the building where he was supposed to meet Draco. Why on Earth was he supposed to meet Draco? “Draco” sounded odd on his tongue but he supposed he'd have to get used to the taste of it.   
His steps were languid and slow and he almost convinced himself he were just taking in the scenery – that he was not making himself perfectly late, especially not because he knew it would mean confrontation. Oh no, not at all.   
He was deeply confused as he stepped into the foyer. It was adorned with tapestries of old duelling wizards and intricate wandwork. He rubbed the gooseflesh peppering his bare arms and he felt distinctly that he was walking into a trap. Whether it was of his own creation? Only time would tell.   
He got a flash of a memory; Hagrid ushering a whimpering Draco, Harry himself in tow, through the Forbidden Forest when they were eleven years old.   
He couldn't help but grip the bannister a little more tightly, fingers sliding through the grooves of a building that looked as though it were once charmingly underfunded, before it had been left to disintegrate.   
The Performance Surfaces that spread before him were vast, reflecting the weak light that shone through blue chalk coloured curtains. Draco Malfoy was silhouetted against the shadows, a broad shouldered Adonis wrought in stippled shadows.   
He looked like a Veela as he glided toward Harry who hadn't realised he was staring until his glazed green eyes met steely grey, angelic features twisting into a more palatable sneer.  
“You look very confused Potter, are you sure you have the right room?” Draco wasn't going to allow Potter's sudden awe of his physique stop him from taunting him about his lack of observance when it came to his surroundings and what he was doing there.   
It should have been a proverbial slap in the face but to Harry it was more like a breath of fresh air. When he'd found out he was to be coached by Draco Malfoy of all people, he'd almost given up on himself. He really hadn't felt like being tormented throughout a training programme that would be equally straining on his mind and body but, as he stood watching Malfoy smirk in triumph he realised he'd also been terrified (maybe more so) that he'd redeemed himself somehow, that he'd become a better, more eligible, desirable member of society. Seeing Draco now, the same surly attitude adorned with cruel, snobbish immaturity, relieved Harry in a way. He could never find someone like that attractive.   
\----------  
After Draco had painstakingly explained that the Minister of Magic had dragged him into giving Harry extra duelling lessons (courtesy of Head Auror, Gawain Robards), and proceeded to owl said man expressing his displeasure over the gaps in Harry's knowledge, he finally got some actual teaching underway.   
The first lesson was simple enough and went along quite breezily with only a few hiccups.   
“Hold your wand higher for me. Good.”  
The praise was gentle and subtle, but nevertheless Harry's cheeks flushed a bit darker and his heart beat faster in his chest.   
He twisted more elegantly and held his wand differently each time he was lightly chided, sulking only when Draco allowed him a break – giving him his water bottle and shaking his head that Harry wasn't more prepared for the strenuous exercise.   
By the time the class was finished Harry was sweating considerably. Draco, like the prick he was stood smugly proud at the end of the room, still looking prim and proper and very much like he was about to retire to a game of Bowls.


	7. 6: Draco

Sipping his tea absent-mindedly, Draco reflected on how Harry had done under his tutoring. The ballpoint pen in his hand dwindled in midair as he signed the report he'd spent the last hour writing. He'd considered going out with Pansy but had passed up the opportunity, considering he just didn't have the time. He went to bed early after a quick supper, having prepped for a long day ahead of him.

The hospital was busy already, which wasn't unusual. Draco yawned into his fist as he changed the bedding of one of the recently deceased. His eyes betrayed him when he caught his reflection in the window. They were wrought with distress, sadness and something else he couldn't quite discern. The woman had been in her late hundreds. She'd told stories of her children and her experiences.  
He couldn't quite explain it but he felt like he'd grown as a person when he was around her. Her name had been Ethel, she was born in France and he'd always taken care to address her as Madame.  
Her death hit him harder than he'd expected it to, and certainly harder than he was allowed to show here, in crowds of wizards and witches who needed his services just as much, if not more.  
After all, no spell could re-awaken the dead.  
\---------- 

After some hefty charm work, Draco all but collapsed into the worn seat of the cafeteria with a steaming Espresso and a large croissant, adorned with butter and a significant helping of strawberry jam.  
“Long morning?” An equally drowsy voice enquired above him.  
Nodding mutely, Draco proceeded to take bites of his croissant, paying no mind to his coworker who drew up a chair an continued chatting, a slight Yorkshire accent slipping through the clipped, optimal Received Pronunciation.  
Draco nodded along and pretended to have an interest in what the man was saying. Draco was half listening to him, of course, if only to throw in an agreeable mutter or a tiny noise acknowledgment.  
His head was someplace else. In the back of his mind he knew he should demand a holiday, even if he used it purely to train the unadulterated mess that was the Great Harry Potter.  
His lunch break ended more promptly than expected when he was called up to the wing by an out of breath seventeen year old – an intern he was later informed.  
As he pumped Milk Thistle acid from a slim, young witch, his eyes kept drifting towards the ceiling, to the seventh floor where Ethel's empty, newly made bed sat.  
She'd flirted with him after.  
A lot of them did – surprisingly. Sometimes they didn't know who he was, he'd treated patients young enough to barely remember the immensity of the War. Others seemed to forget how awful it had been and instead yearned for the nostalgia of the past and the adrenaline of the fight.  
Draco thought about Harry as he patiently took the witches hand off his forearm and rolled his sleeve down. He thought about whether that was his motivation to get back into pursuing his dream of becoming an Auror.  
He wondered whether Harry would be disappointed to learn that most of the job involved desk work and the signing of papers, that it wasn't all field work... He took the drip from the witches' shoulder and set it gently in a vial on his trolley before getting to work untanglling all the loose wires that surrounded her bed.  
He thought about Ethel as he watched this newly healed and replenished woman walk out the door of his ward and briefly asked himself if she would be thankful that she walked away with her life and if he would have done the same.  
He was satisfied by the answer that he would, but had the war never happened, and had he never been part of the collateral damage, would he? Really?  
That night, Draco curled into his sheets and cried.  
\----------


	8. 7: Harry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I'd finally come back to this. It's terribly written but I thought, I might as well finally start to finish it. I'll get better with practice, I promise.  
> S

Harry shovelled another gravy-soaked roast potato into his mouth before attacking his turkey with a hastily grabbed steak knife.  
“How was it, dear?” Molly Weasley's flaming hair was looking bland, limper. Harry hadn't noticed how old she suddenly seemed to be getting.  
He pushed it to the back of his mind, instead answering her with a unintelligible mumble of “Huh?”  
“You're session with- Draco wasn't it?”  
Harry chose to pretend he hadn't noticed her pause and swallowed a piece of turkey. “Yeah. I mean, it went good.”  
“Well.” Ron corrected from a couple of chairs down.  
Harry pulled a face before telling Ron that he was spending so much time with his wife that his friends had started believing he'd gone teetotal.  
“I still drink!” Ron actually sounded quite offended and looked more so when Harry laughed.  
“Watching 'House-hunters while Wine Drunk doesn't count mate.”  
They continued the light hearted banter for some time until Ron brought up Harry's less than stellar love life – or the lack of it. After that, Harry concentrated on pushing forkfuls of vegetables into his mouth while nodding distantly at Molly's incessant spiel of chatter. It was only later that day that Harry realised Ron hadn't made any derogatory comments regarding Malfoy.  
A chair squeaked loudly as it scrapped across the uneven floor of the Burrow's kitchen. Harry flickered his eyes to the spot where Arthur Weasley had finally taken his place at the head of the table.  
“Bill and Fleur owled from France,” he said conversationally as he scooped some of the leftover dinner scraps onto his plate.  
That made Harry perk up a bit. “How are they Mr. Weasley?”  
He'd never quite kicked the habit of automatically calling Arthur 'Mr.. Weasley, but sometimes, privately, he hoped he never would.  
“They're both well, Bill informed me that Fleur is pregnant again and the girls hope it isn't a boy.”  
“Jesus, again! She's only just had her last one!”  
Harry coughed on a potato.  
“RON!” Came Molly's disaproving voice from the stove.  
Thankfully she went out to tend to the accumulating amount of Pixies in her shrubery.  
Harry smirked at Ron and just mouthed the words 'Fourth year'.  
If Ron had forgotten he'd asked his now sister-in-law to the Yule Ball when he was fourteen he had certainly been reminded and he was not happy.  
He flicked a spoonful of carrot at Harry, the carrot missed it's target by millimetres and instead hit a pair of Arthur's Ministry regulated boots.  
Ron looked guilty for a second before realising his father was invested in a Muggle paper he'd probably taken from a bench outside of Hogsmede.  
Harry flicked a pea and by the time the sun had gone down the kitchen looked like it had been ransacked: pots were upturned, towels thrown over the floor and food everywhere.  
Arthur calmly put his newspaper down, cast a scourgify and picked up the gravy, which was just about the only thing that had been saved.  
“Honestly, you're both adults. Very immature of you two.”  
Ron gulped while Harry looked at the floor, refusing to acknowledge that he was either an adult or that he'd contributed to the partial mess that still littered the kitchen.  
He'd considered the Weasley's family for so long that he forgot he wasn't actually part of it. Heck, he'd nearly married one of them... Then the gravy pot was tipped on his head, with Arthur Weasley laughing hysterically at the other end.  
Ron just gaped as Harry removed his glasses and pressed his forehead to the wooden table. It took a couple of minutes for him to compose himself, by that time the other men in the room had erupted into fits of laughter as well.  
He was still covered in gravy when Molly came back into the kitchen.  
“What-”  
At that moment, Harry got up from the table and hugged Molly. She muttered about her clothes getting dirty but wrapped her arms around him all the same.


	9. 8: Draco

Draco placed his hand over Harry's and felt the jolt of energy running through his veins.  
“You're twitching.” He said it monotonously as he helped Harry with his stance and his grip. “Now you'll actually hit your mark when you cast.” He gestured to the scorch marks surrounding the steel target's head.  
Harry snorted. “I can't concentrate when you're breathing down my neck every five minutes.”  
“Would you rather I teach you occlumency the hard way”  
Harry grimaced. He was bad at keeping people out of his mind and he really didn't want that experience again. However, he had been taught some valuable lessons and these he put forth, not fully trusting Draco to not use those methods of negotiation.  
Draco found himself being exposed to some very explicit images of men who he suspected weren't as expirienced in Quidditch as their gear would lead you to believe.  
Evidently, he'd given away that he was uncomfortable and not at all turned on when Harry winked and the connection shut down.  
“Focus.” Draco hissed hoarsely, moving closer to Harry as he aimed yet again for the target.  
\----------  
“Why are you in such a foul mood?” Harry asked as he took a bit of his sandwich.  
“I'm not. For Merlin's sake transfigure something into a plate, you're dropping crumbs everywhere.” He cringed, realising how much he must sound like Harry's mu-. Draco instantly stopped thinking, instead returning to the conversation he'd previously tried to escape from.  
“I'm in a 'foul mood', as you put it, because I'm running an entire ward of patients almost single-handedly for five to six days a week, I'm training you on my days off with meagre pay and I had to help two people into body bags yesterday.”  
“You had to help...?” It took Harry more than a few seconds to understand but when he did, he fell silent. For some reason Draco had misjudged Harry's levels of empathy, because he was presented with a brooding man chomping loudly on a cheese and cucumber sandwich.  
Harry finished his sandwich and stared at the veins running through his hands for an absurd length of time.  
He gulped almost inaudibly before mustering some of that Gryffindor courage he seemed to hide these days. “Why can't you ask for some time off... you know to-” He trailed off, not wasting the breath he had left to add the words 'help me'.  
Draco got up quite hastily, dusting off his perfectly stainless trousers, leaving the half finished cup of tea on the windowsill behind him.  
Harry raised an eyebrow before Draco sighed heavily and picked the tea up, making his way to the sink in the most dramatic way possible. “I'm not a house elf you know.”  
Harry seemed to relax then. The way he said it carried some reminiscence somehow. Draco saw it: the faraway look in his eyes, the stupid lopsided smile on his face. It was everything Draco wasn't and he felt a pang of self-pity wrench through his gut.  
“What are you looking all doe-eyed at Potter?” He snapped. “We have work to do and I'm knackered.”  
“I know.” Harry said softly.  
\----------  
Harry stopped mid-attack, sending a violent stinging hex ricocheting off the far wall. Dodging it just in time, he held up a hand, signalling for Draco to fall back from his defensive stance.  
“I've had an idea”.  
“Another one in three hours? You're two remaining braincells must be exhausted.”  
To Draco's surprise, Harry laughed. It was a rich, vibrant sound. However, the laugh quickly turned into a tremendous coughing fit and Harry had to be patted quite heavily on the back to stop choking.  
After he regained most of his composure he started again, carefully this time. “Okay. I was thinking-”  
Draco quirked an eyebrow.  
“-Shut up- I was thinking I could have a word with someone. Maybe Shacklebolt or Robards... Hell I could get Dr. Thomas to have a word with your supervisor.  
Dr Willow Thomas was the current head of St. Mungo's and subsequently Draco's superior. Draco held back the urge to transfigure his protégé into a Newt. Instead he composed himself by rubbing his temples. Draco had spent long hours studying and revising and working to get where he was now, to show the world he had changed and that he didn't need anyone's damn help. Especially not the favour of Harry Potter's signature.  
Instead he simply declined, politely telling Harry to take his head out of his own arse and concentrate on practicing.


	10. 9: Harry

He was definitly too drunk to apparate by now. But Harry was an idiot. Harry was a drunk idiot and apparated anyway, which is how he found himself in St. Mungos at four in the morning.   
It could have been much worse, but it was a little humiliating considering it was a Thursday morning, not to mention that he was Harry Potter, or that he was in Official Academy Training to become an Auror. Or it would have been humiliating – if he could remember to be humiliated. Most of the right side of his body had taken impact upon falling through space-time and he'd been splinched just below his ribcage. So all Harry felt was pain. An immense fire burning at his side and throughout his nerves.   
He heard vague shouts and caught a the whispers of a few words said in varying degrees of distress. Trying to open his eyes was definitly not an option. He did try but his head was spinning and everything was hazy, the various rooms melding together in a wash of watercolour lines.  
He closed his eyes, head throbbing. His side ached more dully than before. He didn't think about the bruising or the heavy impact he'd endured. He just listened, breathing shallowly, swallowing all the air he could.   
His throat felt thick, what with, he didn't know. He felt the voices more than heard them now. Fading in and out of blackness, Harry stopped trying.   
He stopped trying. Until there was a hand, large and soft on his shoulder. He didn't know who – he didn't care. They sounded strained and urgent as they tugged at sheets that he didn't realise he was wrapped in.   
“Harry.” The voice was closer now. Clearer.   
“Harry.” More desperate than the last time.   
Then, nothing.  
He was swimming in and out of consciousness. Nothing was audible anymore but he felt the light brush of lips against his, hesitant but needy. In hindsight, he didn't understand why he hadn't reciprocated.  
\----------   
It took many attempts to open his eyes before he was wholly successful. He didn't count how many.   
The first time, he'd tried it was because he heard what sounded like glass bottles clink together.   
The second it had been because the brightness of the lamps above had scoured through his eyelids, leaving bright spots at the back of his unused vision.   
The last time he did it was when he felt the hands of the person from before – at least he thought it was. Their hands had the same, soft texture. They were light as a feather as they first took hold of his shoulder before moving to his forehead.   
His hair was moved back from his face. He hadn't even noticed it had matted a little. He didn't notice anything except the strangers' hands, suddenly around his own. Where his left hand had been dangling loosely through the bed rail were fingers. A palm. Someone else's hand squeezing his, reassuring... tentative... hopeful.  
The light was the first thing to hit him. Followed closely by the pain. Someone placed his glasses gently on the bridge of his nose and the foggy outlines sprang up around him, becoming sharp and pronounced.  
Looking down, Harry could see - for the first time since he'd passed out, the sea foam coloured linen; the browning, dry blood that caked about half of his right side. That's when the memories - the fragments of those he had - came back. He saw them, fragmented, displaced. Swirling in and out of one another while the searing pain only sought to distract him. He couldn't remember losing his glasses though and he was thankful to whoever had replaced them.   
When he looked up at his supposed saviour, he shouldn't have been surprised. He should, however have been thankful. That would have been insincere though, instead he struggled through a single sentence.   
“You've got to be joking.”   
\----------


	11. 10: Draco

Draco slumped into the chair, his whole body aching with the tiredness. He just wanted to crawl into bed with Harry and tell him it was okay, that he was okay. But Draco knew he couldn't do that with a patient. To a patient.  
He thought he'd read the signals right this time. But no. It was like that with everyone. It had been like that with Pansy, with Flint, With Blaise, with Astoria. He remembered almost sullenly how his marriage had gone down the drain. Why. Draco wasn't ready to confront those demons yet. He doubted he ever would.  
He took one last fervent look at the sleeping man who laid before him before unwillingly dozing off himself.  
\----------  
It seemed the world hadn't caught fire whilst he slept after all.  
Light drifted through the blinds, breaking in long, slanted stripes across the room. It was small and unoccupied – save for the drooling form of Harry Potter on the single gurney.  
It had been hard work. They couldn't put him in with other patients or the incident would be out to the press in minutes. Everyone at the scene had been obliviated, Muggles and wizards alike.  
Draco had orchestrated it, of course. Mainly for his own benefit. He felt like they'd come so far and he – they both deserved not to be hounded by Ministry Officials, Press or – Merlin's Beard, Gawin Robards. Draco shuddered. He was intimidated by the man, although neither had directly interacted with one another. Draco hoped to keep it that way.  
As Draco watched Harry shift over in his covers, a truly evil thought sprung forth.  
Draco pushed it back. Instead he busied himself with paperwork, there was always a lot of that to do. Especially as he had to write up Harry's recovery status himself, since he'd been a first responder in the whole affair.  
Harry stirred just as Draco had completed his second scroll, sending it through Floo to be cross-examined and co-signed by other staff members.  
“You're still here.”  
“Yes.” He suddenly felt vulnerable, alone in a room with his temporarily incapacitated trainee. He didn't want to say former just yet. Draco was acutely aware he could be stripped of everything right now and he didn't wish dwell on it.  
“Why did you kiss me?”  
Harry's voice had a gravelly tone to it, something Draco couldn't quite place but also something that sounded so familiar, he could almost picture it happening before, maybe with someone else.  
He shook his head. He was thinking too much again. Thinking; Draco conceded, was always a bad idea. Thinking too much always landed wizards in trouble and he was not one of those to seek trouble. Not anymore. For a moment, Draco was lost – consumed wholly by his own temptations to the point where he thought he'd imagined it. “Pardon?” His South-West accent drifting back into his speech.  
“I said,” Harry raised himself up onto his elbows, wincing at the sharp pain he endured while doing so, “Why did you kiss me Malfoy?”  
He wasn't in the mood to argue with the man so he simply changed tactic. “I have a job to do, Potter, whether you like it or not. Why did you think it was a good idea to apparate anywhere under the influence? Do you know what this could have cost you?” Draco's steely gaze focused on the spot behind Harry's head, trying not to catch his eye.  
A moment of silence passed before Harry slumped back, his head hitting the thin cushioning with a dull thud.  
“You know what, fuck you.” Harry sighed heavily before continuing. Draco tried to cut him off but it didn't work. “No. It could cost me my life anytime I go anywhere or do anything. Remember: I'm the famous Harry Potter.” He seethed, unrelenting. “I survived the killing curse twice before dragging every Death Eater and their families under the bus. (Draco, although still getting to grips with Muggle terminology, was pretty sure he could piece together what Harry was saying). So fuck you and your-” Harry gesticulated wildly. “Whatever this is.” Harry's voice was louder and filled with more rage than he'd felt in a long, long time.  
He'd apparently spied his wand, tucked between the pages of Witch Weekly because no more than a minute later, a Stinging Hex whistled past his ear.  
Draco broke into a real smile then. “If only you showed this much promise under my tutoring – you would be a qualified Auror by now.”  
“You should have kissed me sooner then.” Harry clasped his hand over his mouth, the one Draco held throughout his arduous night. He dropped it again almost instantaneously.  
“For the last time Potter, you were intoxicated and under a few dozen skilfully applied Charms. I didn't kiss you.” Draco strode over to the bed, tipping Harry's head back, leaving his throat exposed to the thin light of the window. Harry leant up, pinning when Draco drew himself back, regaining some control.  
“Calm down, I was just checking your wounds.” It was the most flimsy excuse in the book, but it was Draco's only way out until he was outside the sterile walls of St. Mungo's. He had to take it.  
“Will you be alright on your own for an hour while I take my lunch break? If anything's urgent – send a Patronus. If anything's wrong, the monitor will go off.”  
“You're lea-. Got it.” Harry amended.


	12. 11: Harry

Alone, Harry looked for something to do. He wasn't in immense pain, but his side throbbed unforgivingly.   
Before Draco had left, he'd changed Harry's sheets and Harry had looked away, embarrassed at the spectacle that must have been his body. To Harry's relief, he had pale blue bruising on his side but that was what the summary of his injuries amounted to.   
He could train more, he supposed. A room like this was adequate, (save for all the breakable objects in the room) an improvement on their sparring quarters that Robard's had begrudgingly allowed them for training. Harry was quite dismayed at himself. Until he spotted the Heart Monitor. It floated quite plainly above the bed, beeping silently. Harry almost laughed at how easy it would be to scare Draco into this... this easily bated trap that he basically left lying around.   
He knew Draco hadn't held his position long. So he probably hadn't seen anything like it... Harry's Gryffindor spark got the better of him. If he were trapped here any longer he'd surely go insane. He could prove he was better. He would prove he was better.   
He'd hopefully get more than a kiss out of it too.   
\----------   
Slowly, Harry traced his rim, feeling the lubrication slick his insides. The non-verbal he'd cast sent shivers up his spine. He didn't think of anything else but how good it felt as the first finger breached his rim.   
He neglected to touch his cock yet, more intent on trying to graze his prostate. He hadn't done this in so long. It was exhilarating. It was stipid. And Harry didn't care.  
Relaxing into the tight pressure, Harry aligned a second finger with the first, delighting as the heart monitor started to jump erratically. Any minute now...   
Draco burst into the room, eyes boring into the heart monitor before even glancing at Harry, who had thrown his covers off and was writhing in ecstasy. His legs drawn up around him so he could access his hole for a better angle; so he could give Draco Malfoy a better view.   
“Oh God.” He closed his eyes as his other hand thumbed his slit, almost impatiently.   
Draco locked the door with his wand before purposefully stepping into the room.   
“I. Am. Going. To. Crucio. You.” He punctuated every word with another footfall before getting close enough to Harry's bedside to grasp his wrist – jerking Harry's hand violently from his barely loosened hole.   
Harry was taken by surprise when a willing hand encircled his throat. “Imagine if it wasn't me that came up here? Any other Healer would ruin you.” Draco seethed, squeezing Harry's throat slightly harder each time he talked.   
“But I want you to do it.” Harry whispered, not looking away from Draco's eyes.   
Draco gulped. All his past came crashing down on him at once. Everyone he'd every slept with. The War. His guilt. All of it could be solved if he just gave in.   
“Not here.”   
Everything was on the line here. Both men's futures lay in the balance as Draco flooed to the only place the wards wouldn't kick one of them out – the practice studio.   
\----------  
Lying in the afterglow, and the aftermath of what had been a very pleasant evening, Harry looked up at Draco through thick lashes.  
Quite suddenly, he found himself snorting. He was lying on the floor of the room they used for Auror Training, covered in come and slicked with sweat.   
“What's so funny?” Draco's brow shot up.   
“Nothing.” Harry snorted again.  
“It's not my hair is it?” Draco clamoured at his hair, in mocking mortification.   
Harry actually laughed then, letting the sound slip between his teeth. “You're going to have to do a hell of a lot of paperwork to get everything properly sorted after basically abducting me from St. Mungo's”.   
“I suppose I will.” Draco mused, trailing his fingers over the back of Harry's hand before locking their fingers together.   
“If I must say it, I've quite enjoyed your company. Even if you're a bit of a dandin”.   
His voice was soft and almost comforting as he drew his gaze to the window, the evening sky a vibrant mix of varying shades of purple.   
“A what.”   
\----------   
When Harry got his Auror's Licence, the first thing he did was kiss Draco. On the mouth. In front of a room heaving with people. It was all very uncouth, as Draco would later point out. This took most of the Wizarding Press by surprise.   
Draco, however smerely smirked, pressing his hand tightly to the small of Harry's back.  
Of course photos were taken and words were exchanged. (Some of them in hushed tones of abhorrence.) But Draco didn't care. Draco was used to the stares and whispers, he could live with it. He could do more than live with it.   
“I hate you.” Draco smiled fondly at Harry before gently pressing his lips to messy, black hair.   
He would savour it as newly appointed Auror Harry Potter kissed him. Finally he felt whole again. Like he could conquer the world... but he didn't want to. Not with Harry by his side.   
Obviously, there would be questions. Draco didn't want to answer any of them. Not particularly. Maybe someday he would tell the riveting tale of how two sworn enemies even came upon this situation – by happenstance of course.


End file.
